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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762843">She Remembered My Name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle'>ponticle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Best Friends, Developing Relationship, Exes, F/F, F/M, Graduate School, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Sequel, phd, poly themes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:02:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This story's tone is best summed up in the following quote from Isabela herself:</p><p>"I’ve been told I wear bravery like a nametag. It was Alistair who said that, incidentally. In the same breath, he also implied that I’m some kind of a well-intentioned sociopath.<br/>Today, I decide to see if he’s right."</p><p>...this is vaguely a sequel to my <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798198">First Dates</a> story, and while it's not necessary to have read that first, it'll make this more meaningful...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alistair/Anders (Dragon Age), Alistair/Isabela, Calpernia/Isabela (Dragon Age)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her shoulder makes painful contact with my mouth. I suck the skin even as I taste metal… and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>rapturous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I love it. But all at once it hits me — as strongly as her shoulder did — that I don’t really have any normal friends… and shit like this is the reason why.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m Isabela and this is my story.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the days immediately following my discovery, I’m fairly listless. Alistair — my best friend — calls a lot and I don’t really bother picking up the phone. It’s not a punishment, per se, but he’s spending time with Anders this week and, although I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>Anders, it’s not my </span>
  <em>
    <span>favorite</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hang out with them together — they’re the kind of gross couple who likes each other… </span>
  <em>
    <span>a lot</span>
  </em>
  <span>... and they’re ultra-committed to each other. It highlights the fact that I’m not… committed…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I should probably explain all that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn’t the first time they’ve dated. About a year and a half ago, Anders broke up with Alistair in this confusing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>silent</span>
  </em>
  <span> way that made Alistair almost lose his mind. In the process of ‘getting back out there’ Alistair and I — well — we started our own thing… but... it didn’t last. A part of me knew it wouldn’t. In the process, though, I helped him figure things out with Anders. It was a dubious decision, on my part, that probably led to our eventual demise as a couple and it wasn’t even really an accident. I wanted to help, I guess... and maybe to sabotage... And here we are...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the third day, I finally pick up the phone when he calls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Bel. I was starting to think you were dead,” he says. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>dramatic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope… I’m alive… well… maybe. Is it possible to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>existentially </span>
  </em>
  <span>dead?” I ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, but doesn’t answer. He’s quite clever, deep down, but he doesn’t usually have comebacks for me right away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anders and I were going to get dinner tonight — it’s the last one before he goes home…” he answers, “It would be really cool if you came.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t really want to. I’m low-grade grouchy and raw… and I’m facing my own inability to connect with people unless we’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>connecting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so I make a non-committal sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bel… what’s going on with you?” He pauses. “...really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tsk into the phone and roll my eyes, although he can’t see me. “Nothing… I’m just… I think I’m a shit friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” he gasps, sounding shocked, but he’s also laughing. “That’s not true — you’re a wonderful friend… my </span>
  <em>
    <span>best</span>
  </em>
  <span> friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but you’ve also fucked me,” I blurt. It’s not something we usually talk about — that period when we were something — but I’m willing to bring it up to win this argument, apparently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah… so? People can be friends </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> lovers, can’t they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I mean… I can’t separate the two…” I say. It’s clear he doesn’t understand what I mean — </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t either — but I keep talking, “I just don’t know if it’s possible for me to be emotionally intimate with anyone with my clothes on… </span>
  <em>
    <span>or </span>
  </em>
  <span>without them. I don’t know how to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hums, thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And society has told me that taking my clothes off, with this kind of frequency and relish, makes me a </span>
  <em>
    <span>slut, </span>
  </em>
  <span>since day one... and I’ve sort of internalized that pejorative… so I’m bummed out... that’s all,” I finish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need me to come over?” he asks, suddenly sounding serious. “I can tell Anders I need an hour or two. He’s got work to do anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m fine — he’s leaving tomorrow…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” says Alistair, “but I love you. I’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>there if you need me — he gets that, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smile without meaning to. “Yeah, I know…” I don’t say that I love him too, but it’s implied. Even though we couldn’t make it work as a couple, he knows I mean it. Love comes in a lot of forms; that’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>taught me, actually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We sigh together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So will you please come to dinner?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Fine. Where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that Thai place I like?” he asks. “The one with the sign that’s always burned out on the left-hand side?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh. “Siam Spice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s the one. Meet us there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll be there…”</span>
</p><p><span>Despite how obsessed we were with making this whole thing equitable after our breakup, he doesn’t ask me if I’m going to bring someone before we hang up. It’s not the way we structured this relationship web. He has this super committed relationship and I… </span><em><span>don’t…</span></em><span> which he thinks is stupid.</span> <span>But, that final negotiation aside, we’ve been doing this best-friends-again-after-dating thing for almost a year now and it’s going really well, on the whole. He has Anders back after a breakup that nearly fucking </span><em><span>killed </span></em><span>him and I have… well… I have autonomy… and that’s something I’ve really struggled with in my life. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To pass the time until dinner, I decide to head to the university library, although it’s a Sunday. I’m getting my Ph.D. in dead languages. My dissertation is going to be a translation of an epic poem in Old Low Nevarran. I’m one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>three </span>
  </em>
  <span>people in the known world who can read it, so — needless to say — the text translation is going really slowly. Add to that the rarity of such a text — we know of fewer than ten in existence — and you can see why this has taken me five years already. I’m in a perpetual fight with my thesis adviser about it. Incidentally, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>one of the other two people who can read Old Low Nevarran. For all she knows, I could be making it up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though... I’ve thought about it, but I’m not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The library is quiet today, even for a Sunday. I get myself set up at a long table in the middle of the largest open area and spread out all my reference materials — ready for a linguistic fight — and that’s when I see </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>: sitting across the way, nose in a book, lips pulled into a contemplative line. And although she is giving no intimation that she knows I’m in the room — that I even </span>
  <em>
    <span>exist </span>
  </em>
  <span>— it’s like she’s daring me to look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the first day this has happened — it’s not even the first </span>
  <em>
    <span>semester</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No, this strange and beautiful person looks like </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> and she has looked like that particular thing the entire time I’ve been a prisoner (</span>
  <em>
    <span>I mean student</span>
  </em>
  <span>) at this stupid university.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weird thing is, I’ve never said hi to her. I’ve wanted to, I just haven’t. It’s strange really; no one would normally ever accuse me of cowardice. I’ve been told I wear bravery like a nametag. It was Alistair who said that, incidentally. In the same breath, he also implied that I’m some kind of a well-intentioned sociopath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, I decide to see if he’s right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I saunter over and lean against the table’s edge in a display of calculated femininity. “Hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman looks up, utterly nonplussed, but smiles when she sees me. It’s not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> smile — it’s something much more absent — but it reveals her teeth, which I find oddly appealing; she has a pronounced gap, like some kind of avant garde runway model. It’s the kind of thing that sets her face apart: she’s striking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Isabela.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods and gestures for me to sit in the seat across from her, without speaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you are?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rather busy, actually,” she says, smiling more broadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh. It’s not that I consider myself </span>
  <em>
    <span>above</span>
  </em>
  <span> being rebuffed — I know it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>a thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> —  it’s just that it doesn’t happen very often. Usually, I get fairly far on my looks, and if those don’t work I have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>brain</span>
  </em>
  <span> — quite a good one, actually. It seems like it’s time to use it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve seen you around here before; what are you studying?” I ask. As I do so, I cock my head to one side and lean in. I’m trying to see what kind of person I’m dealing with — some people turn away from eye contact; some people turn into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does neither, though. She doesn’t even blink. It’s like she’s looking </span>
  <em>
    <span>through</span>
  </em>
  <span> me — like this is the most boring conversation she’s ever been subjected to. Finally, with an audible sigh, she speaks, “Temporal mechanics…”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no. </span>
  </em>
  <span> I was banking on it being something in the humanities. As exacting as I have to be for my own work, math tends to make my head hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...</span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I’m studying — temporal mechanics,” she repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s interesting,” I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it’s Cal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes me a minute to realize she’s answering my previous question: who she is. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cal</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I wonder if it’s short for something. I’m familiar with nicknames. In my time at the university, I’ve picked up a few, my favorite of which is I.B. — an easy abbreviation of my name and a reference to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Impassioned Baccalaureate</span>
  </em>
  <span> (of the year), an accolade I received just before my twenty-first birthday, for the part I played in decoding a particularly difficult part of one of those original Old Low Nevarran texts. If only my current research was going as well… thinking about it makes me feel rather far away...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re bored </span>
  <em>
    <span>already</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Cal laughs, but the accompanying smile doesn’t reach her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Sorry, just thinking. Are you nearly finished?” I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finished?” Her eyes widen. “There isn’t an end to </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That’s actually the whole point…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s me who laughs, but it’s a function of nervousness. It’s been a long time since someone made me feel off-balance like this — in an </span>
  <em>
    <span>intellectual </span>
  </em>
  <span>way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a lot to learn, I guess. You’ll have to teach me,” I flirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cal smiles suddenly. “I have undergrads to teach and even then I don’t waste my time lecturing; engage with me or fail… know what I mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get it,” I say, resting my chin on a fist. “So are you… engaged… right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>bit</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” equivocates Cal. She leans in, mirroring me. “You haven’t given me much to sink my teeth into, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mention of teeth makes me think of hers again — and her lips, which I notice are full and pouting. I swallow. To my horror, I’m at an utter loss for words — a fitting death for a linguist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cal laughs again. “If that next sentence ever occurs to you, text me.” She stands, suddenly, grabbing a scrap of paper and pen from her bag. She scribbles the number hastily and slides it across the desk to me. “I won’t hold my breath, though…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On her way past me, she doesn’t come close enough to touch, but the way she disturbs the air makes me shiver. Just before she disappears into the stacks, she turns, expression formed, but utterly unreadable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice to meet you, Isabela.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She remembered my name</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~~</p><p>It takes me a few hours to recover from my run-in with Cal, but by the time I arrive at the restaurant, I <em> mostly </em>have. Anders and Alistair are already sitting at a table near the back. Alistair is laughing quietly, resting his chin on a fist. He looks up and waves when he sees me. Anders turns, too. </p><p>It’s always a little awkward when I first see Anders. It’s something rarely discussed in the case of lovers-turned-friends: there’s latent jealousy and <em> no one </em> is impervious to it. It doesn’t matter that I’m happy he’s happy; it’s just a fact.</p><p>“Hey, Andy; how’s it going?” I ask.</p><p>“I’m great. It’s been quite a week.” He stands and hugs me in a cursory way — where our chests don’t meet — and then pulls the chair out for me on his side, so we’re both looking at Alistair. </p><p>“That’s nice,” I say. “Are you ready to go home?”</p><p>“Not remotely, but that’s par for the course,” he laughs. </p><p>Alistair looks a little sad, but it’s transient. Despite the fact that they’re working on it, they’re still in a long-distance relationship. There’s no telling how long it’ll be like that for; they both have lots of things to work on and Anders is involved in some kind of ‘humanitarian work’ that <em> I </em> think might be turning militant… it’s a whole thing that I’m trying not to be too involved in.  It’s bad enough that I was already there for <em> every moment </em> of their break up and reconciliation.</p><p>“How are you, Bel? Feeling any better?” asks Alistair.</p><p>“Yeah… I think I am, actually,” I answer. </p><p>Anders squints at me. “Were you sick?”</p><p>I roll my eyes. I find it funny, which things Alistair will and won’t say to Anders about me. “Emotionally, maybe… I was just telling Al that I don’t have any friends I don’t sleep with.”</p><p>Anders quirks a sideways smile. “<em> We </em> don’t sleep together.” </p><p>“Yeah, I guess that’s true… but are we <em> friends </em> ? Seems like stretching it…” I joke. All three of us laugh — it’s a function of nervous horror more than anything else, but he’s <em> right </em> ; I can’t imagine sleeping with him <em> . </em> The very idea makes me feel slightly <em> sick </em>.</p><p>Anders clutches his chest in feigned shock. Alistair reaches across the table to squeeze his other hand. We’re all play-acting now, although I don’t know exactly why. </p><p>“But, yeah… I’m feeling a little better now, actually... different...” I say suddenly, remembering Cal and her perversely attractive tooth-gap. </p><p>“Oh yeah?” asks Anders. He raises an eyebrow. </p><p>Alistair looks like something else — I’m not sure what, but it’s something.</p><p>“Yeah… I uh… met someone kind of cool at the library today,” I say, clearing my throat. Based on the look Alistair’s wearing, I don’t really want to get into it, but Anders looks so invested. In fact, he is <em> always </em>fairly invested in getting me a permanent partner. I get it; he’s trying to get rid of the jealous feeling, too.</p><p>“Yeah, <em> and </em>?” Anders prompts.</p><p>“Well… I dunno. She seemed kinda cool… I’ve seen her around before, actually, but this is the first time we actually met,” I explain.</p><p>“Oh my god, have you been <em> holding </em> a <em> torch </em> for someone?” cackles Anders. “This is amazing; I can see the double dates now!” He looks back at Alistair while he’s still laughing and the smile dies on his face. “Oh… or not? Sorry…”</p><p>Alistair shrugs. “I think we might give it a minute before we start planning the rest of Isabela’s life…” Then he smiles, like nothing is wrong, but I know him better than that.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s probably nothing, anyway,” I tell him, but I’m not sure that’s true. I haven’t stopped thinking about her since we spoke. Granted, it’s been only a few hours… but still… it feels like something… something potentially, and uncharacteristically, lengthy.</p><p>The food arrives just in the nick of time and we’re saved. Anders tells me all about his return flights and the crazy layover he has in Amaranthine — twelve hours! — and before I know it, we’re saying goodbye.</p><p>“See you soon, okay, Bel?” Alistair whispers in my ear before we separate. </p><p>“Yeah… I’m looking forward to it,” I say. And I <em> am… </em> it’s something we can both count on: at the end of the day it’s <em> always </em>Al and me. </p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>...except one week later, things are still a little weird...</p><p> </p><p>“Ouch!” I hiss, mouth burning. </p><p>“I told you that was too hot,” says Alistair. He’s using his teaching-voice, which is annoying, considering I’m not going to be able to taste anything for a month.</p><p>“Fuck you,” I manage, grabbing for my water glass.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah…”</p><p>We both laugh, although my mouth is still singed. We’re sitting on the couch, ensconced in the papers he’s supposed to be grading, with music on in the background and every light in the house pointing straight at us — otherwise known as ‘every week night.’ It’s a comfortable pattern we’ve fallen into. </p><p>He talks to me about the students he really likes and we laugh together at the worst papers. He’s deign to do it at first — because ‘morality’ — but is actually the secret ring-leader. He uses me to make him feel better about it, though — as if I’m talking him into it. I don’t mind; a little scapegoating is something I can get behind.</p><p>“So when are you going to tell me about that person you met?” he asks, suddenly.</p><p>“What?” I ask. I’m holding ice in my mouth on the part of my tongue that is currently inoperable, so it comes out gurgling.</p><p>“That <em> person... </em>the library person…?” he repeats.</p><p>“Why?” I snap, spitting the ice back into my cup. I’m defensive, although I have no right to be. I haven’t stopped thinking about her. </p><p>It’s been a week since I first saw Cal in the library, and despite the little piece of paper I keep transferring from pants-pocket to pants-pocket, I haven’t contacted her. </p><p>Alistair snorts. “The person you mentioned at dinner last week — when Anders was here. Andraste, you’d think you actually <em> liked </em> her.”</p><p>“What does <em> that </em> mean?” I ask. “I like lots of people…”</p><p>Alistair rises to his full sitting height and looks down at me reproachfully. “Yeah… I know… but not <em> like-like </em>.”</p><p>We glare at each other.</p><p>“...unless you <em> do </em>… like her?” he prompts. “If--If you do that’s fine… I’m just… surprised.”</p><p>“Yeah… that I’m not heartless? <em> Cute </em>…” I stand up suddenly, and throw a couch pillow at him.</p><p>“No,” he says, standing up to catch me around the waist — he knows my tendency to run. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’m sorry; that was insensitive.”</p><p>I shrug, not wanting to give in, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s holding onto me like this — looking down at me with sincerity etched into every inch of his expression. I let the silence stretch while my anger ebbs.</p><p>“I don’t know that it’s anything, really…” I say finally. “I have been <em> thinking </em> about her, though… more than I usually think about strangers.”</p><p>“That’s interesting,” he says. All at once, he seems to notice that he’s got his hands on my waist. He drops them to his sides and sits back down, pretending that this is all <em> very normal </em> — that he doesn’t feel awkward.</p><p>I sit, too, but I’m wary. He’s pushing his fingers through his hair and tugging at the nape. It’s one of his tells.</p><p>“Are you okay?” I ask.</p><p>He smiles again, sudden and fake-looking. “I want you to be happy, Bel… you know that, right?”</p><p>“Yeah… I know...”</p><p>“So you can tell me what you’re thinking,” he reiterates. </p><p>“I’m not <em> sure </em> what I’m thinking. I just met her once.” I take a breath and roll my eyes. “But what’s it to you, anyway?”</p><p>He pouts. “Nothing… I just… we’re... best friends.”</p><p>...and I know it isn’t that. It’s the jealousy that is a confusing feature of our relationship now, but <em> I’m </em>not ready to talk about it either.</p><p>~~~</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next day, I find myself in the library again. It’s not surprising; it’s where I end up every day. My translation project is at the point where I want to burn down the whole school just to get away from it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m translating the story of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anaaxus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, a great hero, who happens to be a pirate, on his journey to slay a dragon and ultimately free his people — pillaging optional. I’m about two hundred pages in — out of over six hundred... Predictably, he meets a girl along the way and </span>
  <em>
    <span>makes her his wife,</span>
  </em>
  <span> or something equally detestable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, at this point, there are still so many holes in the translation that I’ve nearly lost the thread of the plot and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>again </span>
  </em>
  <span>starting to consider making it up — especially immediately following meetings with my advisor. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing that has kept me from stretching my linguistic muscles in a less-than-true way is a nugget of morality. It’s rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoying</span>
  </em>
  <span>, actually. Generally speaking, I hate rules — I </span>
  <em>
    <span>detest </span>
  </em>
  <span>moral codes and the delineation of good and evil. I consider myself a pragmatist of the highest order. But still — outright lies won’t work. I learned a long time ago that lies only last so long and the outcome when they expire is invariably negative.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, true to myself, I continue plodding along, despite the mind-numbing boredom and repetitiveness of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s at exactly the time of night when my eyes are starting to close of their own volition, that I feel someone looking at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No response yet, huh?” asks Cal. She’s leaning nonchalantly against the door of my study room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> words to contend with.” I gesture vaguely to the piles of documents spread out across the desk in front of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” says Cal, surveying the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quiet then, but I can tell Cal isn’t in a hurry to leave. I’m just not clear on </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So why are you in </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” she asks suddenly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The library?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cal rolls her eyes and settles more firmly in the doorway. It’s like she </span>
  <em>
    <span>lives</span>
  </em>
  <span> there. “No, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> room. It’s the shittiest one — way too small.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh. “Too small for what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cal shrugs — insouciant and noncommittal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see. When </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>silent it’s a function of coolness, but when I am, I’m supposed to feel embarrassed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That nets me half-a-smile — just one corner of Cal’s mouth quirks up, but it’s enough to make me feel rather proud after how difficult she’s proving to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since my youth, I’ve often fallen into the trap of trying to impress those who are withholding. I always did my best work for the hardest teachers. In fact, it’s that trait that landed me in higher education in the first place. The foremost expert on Old Low Nevarran, now ninety-four years old and convalescing in relative alacrity, was my first tough mentor. I still remember the way he’d correct my papers — </span>
  <em>
    <span>every </span>
  </em>
  <span>margin filled with red ink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m superior,” says Cal, still smiling coyly. “Everyone says so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>true</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I stand, stepping around the desk toward the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m changeable; I know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you change </span>
  <em>
    <span>into</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” The words seem to ignite something involuntary in me. For what seems like the first time, I actively notice Cal’s body. She’s wearing what could be construed as slightly masculine anarchist-fashion: combat boots and a pressed shirt buttoned up to her neck. From the collar, the sinew of her neck protrudes beneath her sharp jaw and pronounced chin. She’s beautiful in a way that I’ve never considered before: an </span>
  <em>
    <span>enigma</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And it reminds me of something Alistair said — that I don’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> anyone. As disparaging as that was, It hits me all at once: I might like </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While I’m still struggling with myself, Cal steps around me to the inside of the desk and leans over the mess of papers. “What are all these?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes trail her every move, without my express permission. She’s captivating, now that I’ve really looked. “I’m translating an old text… it’s a bit shit at the moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cal nods. “My work is like that too… time is tricky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then we smile at each other. Our fields couldn't be more disparate, but I have a feeling that we understand each other in some fundamental way — that there’s a connecting thread. In my study of languages, I’ve cultivated an appreciation for tethers like these — connections so deep and nebulous that they’re only apparent to those who are looking. Language is filled with these: metaphor, imagery, idiom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’d better let you get back to it,” says Cal suddenly. She turns like she’s going to walk away, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn't</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Actually, she stops dead, looking directly into my eyes. Although our bodies are different shapes, I think we might be exactly the same height. There’s a strangeness about looking at someone dead on — or maybe that’s just what looking at </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cal</span>
  </em>
  <span> feels like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to me that I’m staring — again. I laugh and push a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I’ll probably end up sleeping here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cal laughs quietly. “I’ve actually done it…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, then looks around the study room. “But not in here… </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>what it’s not big enough for… sleeping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh again. I can’t seem to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see you around, Iz. Can I call you Iz?” asks Cal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you tell me what Cal is short for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes. “Calpernia…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How </span>
  <em>
    <span>fancy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you call me that, it’ll be our last conversation,” Cal threatens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we’re planning to talk again?” I’m flirting, but I think it might be undercut — it’s possible I’m blushing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll see.” Calpernia doesn’t wink, but her face changes in a way that makes me feel something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she’s gone, I’m left with an internal itchiness that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s not the feeling of arousal that serves as a precursor to some random sexual encounter. It’s not the feeling of camaraderie and nostalgia that I get when I say goodbye to friends after a night of bar hopping and intellectual discourse. But it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> something I’ve felt before. If anything, it’s the feeling I sometimes got when I was with Alistair — sometimes still have, actually. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>longing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s a sure sign: this is something new.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Alistair says, when I walk in the door. He’s grading papers in the living room with the TV on in the background. He likes to multitask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” I say, rounding the corner. I smile at him and throw my things onto an overstuffed chair that belonged to me before I donated it to him; his furniture is a mishmosh of hand-me-downs, which I really like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He adjusts his glasses and blinks at me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, imitating an English tearoom accent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh and sit next to him. “So… about that person I met… I think you were right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Okay.” He straightens and turns to face me straight on. “So… did something happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, actually…” I say. “And that’s the weird part… I mean… you know I like to do the no-strings thing…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and you know I don’t think that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>a thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he interrupts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I roll my eyes. “Yes… I do. And I have told you a million times that committed relationships aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>a thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> for me…” A voice in my mind adds, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>except with you</span>
  </em>
  <span>…’ but I manage to quash it before it forms in my mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, although I know he doesn’t agree with me on a very fundamental level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I actually want to hang out with her… like… maybe see her somewhere…” I continue. It feels awkward. I hate the way he’s looking at me. In the two minutes I’ve been talking, the whole tone of the room has changed. I can feel how jealous he is. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that feeling, of course; I’m just used to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to date her?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah… </span>
  <em>
    <span>that…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay… well, what’s her name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cal,” I answer. As soon as I feel the syllable form in my mouth, I realize I’m smiling around it. It’s involuntary — and horrifying. “She’s studying temporal mechanics at the university.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s cool. Do I know her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That particular thing hadn’t occurred to me. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span> know each other; he doesn’t teach on my campus, but we’re all part of the same consortium. “I’m not sure… I had seen her before, but we never </span>
  <em>
    <span>met</span>
  </em>
  <span> before last week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s she like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really interesting — kind of austere,” I say, still smiling. “Blonde, about my height… condescending in a way that I like… God, Al… I’ve caught feelings, haven’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at me a little sadly, but he laughs. “I knew it would happen eventually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t…” I pick up a couch pillow and groan into it. “I mean, it might not be anything… we’re getting head of ourselves,” I grouse. When I look back up at him, he’s smiling at me gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So let me know if you need any advice, I guess,” Alistair adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah… I will…” but I hope that I never need to. I remember the difficulty of such an endeavor, like it was yesterday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If you remember correctly, when Alistair and I first decided to be a thing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the one who suggested he contact Anders. They had broken up in the most mysterious and painful of ways a few months earlier and I thought it would be good for him to do some cathartic letter writing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What I have never told him is that, although I was trying to be supportive — to be kind — I never actually expected that he’d be able to win Anders back. It’s not that I don’t believe in Alistair; he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> lovable and persuasive when he wants to be… but I thought that Anders’ mind was made up... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That isn’t what happened at all, though. They got back together and Alistair told me he wanted me too — that </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> made him the happiest he’d ever been. And by that time, I had come to terms with the fact that I loved him, despite how weak that made me feel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...and so we tried — for months, even though it almost killed me. I couldn’t understand how he could possibly need this… what it meant about </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> — my worth. How we could make our way as a couple when his attention was divided… so we fought a lot… almost ruined our relationship in trying to understand each other…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...but eventually, I saw it: how Anders </span>
  <em>
    <span>got </span>
  </em>
  <span>him on a fundamentally different level that I did. And, despite everything, I couldn't take that happiness away from him, so I bowed out, ran away. And I know it hurt him; I could tell — but it wasn’t something I thought I could stand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, looking at his expression while I explain the idea of Cal, I can see the telltale signs of defeat — the ones I remember from my own face. And worse than the feeling of rejection, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>sad</span>
  </em>
  <span>; he’s disappointed in himself… just like I was… for the way he feels in the face of replacement. </span>
</p><p><br/>~~~</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to @little_abyss for asking me about Calpernia ages and ages ago... she's my austere, angry, dragon age super model... and I love her almost as much as I love you.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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